


The Five Stages Of Grief

by ghettoassenglishman



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Boys In Love, Emotional Hurt, Five Stages of Grief, I'm Sorry, M/M, Please Don't Hate Me, Sibling Bonding, Suicide, but please read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 15:19:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3697169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghettoassenglishman/pseuds/ghettoassenglishman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>" “We all fucking loved him, Mickey. I know it hurts, fuck – I do. Grieving is all we have in common, but people deal with differently.” Mickey knew she wasn't just talking about what was left, who was left, she was also talking about Ian. "</p><p>Ian commits suicide and Mickey finds it hard to cope. </p><p>(Based off the five stages of grief)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It Isn’t Just Death We Have To Grieve. It’s Life. It’s Loss. It’s Change.

**Author's Note:**

> im sorry ok
> 
> im really sorry
> 
> after that shitty episode you probs won't need this

Mickey can't help himself, he can't just leave Ian, not like this. He steps up, he goes back because its the only place he knows to call home. The train rain is longer than he expected, longer than he had wished, why did he have to leave? Why did Ian have to end things like he had done? Mickey needed to get back, he needed to make Ian see sense just for  _ once.  _

 

When he gets back, his heart shatters. Everything goes the opposite why he had expected, but it always had, hadn't it? Life fucked him over from day one – it wasn't going to change just because he had.

 

“ _Ian-n he killed himself this morning.”_ That was it, he fell to the floor, a bundle of mess that he had always been. It was fatal, it was done, Ian had ended it all and he wasn't there any-more.

 

There had been a letter, just one, it had been hidden under Ian's pillow. Mickey had found it when he slept in the spot that smelt most like Ian. The corners were folded, the sides slightly crumpled. Mickey pulled it open, noticing the scrawny handwriting instantly, his breath nearly caught when he noticed it was addressed to him. He can't do it, he can't read it. He closes it, shoving in-between the mattress and the panels of Ian's bed.

 

He cries himself to sleep that night, Fiona finds him. Rubbing his back, through his stuck tear-stained face, she manages to breath out. “It will be okay, I promise.” The reassurance is bullshit, and shes knows it, Mickey knows he will never be okay again because what made him  _ sane  _ what made him  _ okay,  _ wasn't there to protect him any-more. 

 

“How is it going to be okay? Huh, how am I ever going to be –  _ fuck.”  _ He shudders into his and Ian's pillow, that they usually shared, he tries to catch his breath but its no use. Ian Gallagher was  _ air,  _ Ian Gallagher helped him to breathe. 

 

Fiona takes a gulp, kneeling beside the bed. “We all fucking loved him, Mickey. I know it hurts,  _ fuck –  _ I do. Grieving is all we have in common, but people deal with differently.” Mickey knew she wasn't just talking about what was left, who was left, she was also talking about Ian. How Ian grieved his old life, how he missed the life without being controlled by tubs of pills and a slip telling him he's mentally unstable. All at once, Mickey can't breathe again, he hasn't got the lanky arms around him to help his chest run smoothly any-more. 

 


	2. Denial.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "when we wonder why it has to suck so much sometimes, has to hurt so bad. The thing we gotta try to remember is that it can turn on a dime."

“Mickey, we need to get some money together.” Mandy calls from the kitchen table, her and Lip are around it, discussing something that Mickey couldn't be an apart of, he turns up the television louder, his eyes determined to stand open against the well-known Van Damme movie. Mandy stands up, grabbing the remote from his hand she slams it against the coffee table. “ _Mickey._ We need to some money for Ian's funeral, are you going to help or not?”

 

Mickey doesn't expect it, he looks around and he sees the two of them, they _can_ breathe. He wished he could. “Stop acting like he isn't here anymore!” He shouts, kicking off a bundle of clutter from the coffee table. “Is that was this is, have you forgotten him already? Oh, yeah, lets bury him and forget that he was ever fucking here. No one in Southside matters anyway.” Mandy flinches as he flips the table, beginning to chuck empty bottles against the wall.

 

“Mickey, he isn-” Mandy starts, only for a bottle to crash by the front door.

 

“Don't you fucking say it, don't you fucking _dare.”_ The brunette grabs the bottle of Jacks strayed against the chair and storms towards his room he slams the door shut, scanning the room to find anything of _Ian._ All he finds is a lousy grey hoody, he brings it to his face and it still holds Ian, and just Ian. Pulling it on, he falls against his bed, cowering himself under the thin blanket.

 

A couple of minutes later, he hears the door creak open. “Get the fuck out.” Mickey croaks, his hand tightly gripping to the fabric wrapped around him, he tucks his legs up high and hides his face into the scent of Ian.

 

“You can't keep waiting for him Mick, he's not coming back.” It was Lip, Mickey could of guessed he would say something, he knew a quiet Lip Gallagher wasn't _real._ Mickey doesn't lift his head out from under his shield, he feels his walls building up once more, this time – Ian's inside them with him, but even though he's _there_ he isn't.

 

“I _said.”_ Mickey coughs, a little angry. “Get the fuck out before I kick your teeth down your throat.” His threats aren't as intimidating as he wanted them to be, he knows Lip would just laugh in his face, because he knows deep down that he can't breathe too.

 

There's a creak in the floorboard, but Mickey's sure its just his walls crashing. “You need to stop waiting for him to come home, Mickey, Ian is gone and he isn't coming back.” Lip's words probably weren't said to cause Mickey even _more_ pain, but he couldn't believe, he couldn't accept, the fact that Ian was gone.

 

As usual, he uses violence, because he had always been taught that was the way to grieve. That was the way to _cope._ Mickey leaps from the bed, his breath flaring, he grabs hold of Lips shirt and pushes his harshly against the wall. “I am not going to stand here and believe your bullshit, Ian is-s- is not dead. He is not fucking dead.”

 

Lip nods solely, he grabs hold of Mickey's wrist that is pinned to his neck, he lifts it off and watches as Mickey curls in on himself, again. Mickey was never more grateful that Lip left that room, he would of killed him otherwise. The only way he could get through this was to tell himself that Ian wasn't gone. _Ian is still here. Ian is not dead._ He grabs the strings of the hoody and curls them in his fingers.

 

“You're not dead.” He whispers, looking around the room in hope that Ian would just reappear, lying spread eagle against their bed. The room seemed smaller now.

 

Lip appears from the bedroom, he rubs a hand across his forehead and Mandy's waiting for him. She's afraid for her brother, she's afraid that he might follow Ian because she knows how much Mickey loves him, he knows what love can do.

 

“He needs to know that he's not coming back, Mands, he needs to know that he's not here any-more.” Lip tries to tell her, but she’s already streaming. Mandy lost her best-friend, but it felt like she lost him way before he took his life away, now – she's loosing her brother, she can feel him slowly drifting away and _can't_ let that happen.

 

Biting her lip, she knows she can understand Mickey more than anyone. “He needs to do this, Lip, we're talking about Mickey here.” She shivers, her hands finding themselves within the sleeves of her jacket. Ian's Jacket. “Denial is the one thing that's protecting him from letting it all in.”

 


	3. Anger.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "By remembering that one day, somehow, impossibly, you won’t feel this way. It won’t hurt this much."

Mickey feels himself brewing with anger, he feels himself heating up like a furnace and he can't control it. The sense of breathing is alien to him – like air was just a useless substance that he didn't need any-more. His fists groan and crave to be bruised, to bleed, he needs to get out and use them – no matter what that meant. That night he leaves for the fairytale, he grabs his gun and leaves, the house was already silent anyway.

 

The music is loud, but not loud enough to drown out the voices bouncing around in his head, the ones telling him to do something, the ones telling him its his _fault._ Scanning the room he goes to find someone, a person that looked remotely like Ian. Ian had left him, he had abandoned him in a world that he couldn't cope with on his own, and he was angry, he was hurt, he felt like burning the whole god-damn building down because he had done _everything_ to keep Ian up.

 

“Can I get you anything?” He hears the bartender speak from beside him, he turns, his eyes burning into what he used to call alcohol. Now it was just a liquid that didn't burn any-more, it was just a drink that for a spilt moment could drown out Ian. Mickey nods. “Jacks neat.” The bartender goes through, pouring it into the glass, handing it to Mickey, it all seems to fast but Mickey downs it faster.

 

“You seen the Redhead in here? Tall, lanky fucker – urm, goes by, uh, Curtis?” Mickey asks, knowing he probably sounds crazy, but there was always that one hope that Ian didn't leave, that Ian didn't end it, and he just came back to the place that broke him whole.

 

The bartender taps his fingers against the bar, the sound vibrating in Mickey's ears like a never-ending drum. “Nah, sorry man. That kid left here donks ago, he made good bills as-well. Heard he killed himself not long ago, poor guy, it sucks when you feel like you've got no one to turn to.” No one to turn to? He had Mickey? He had his family? What was this bullshit? Mickey was inches away from pouncing on this guy, until he spoke up again.

 

“If you're looking for a redhead we still have Luis, slightly older, smaller abs, most likely a shitter fuck than Curtis, but yeah, he comes cheap.” He points to the crowd, Mickey follows and sees a redhead dancing on the podium, the same stage Ian would dance on. Mickey feels his gut twist, he downs his drink and makes his way over to the dancer on the stage.

 

Once he's close, he hears the redhead whisper. “You want a good time?”

 

Mickey answers by slipping a couple notes into the redheads shorts, the dancer follows him as he walks over to the bathrooms he knew so well. Mickey knows what he's going to do, its been driving him all week, they both step into the small space of the toilets. Mickey turns and locks to the door, through his groggy eyes he can see the redhead waiting for him.

 

“You think you can leave me?” Mickey spits, wiping the corner of his mouth. The redhead looks dazzled, shaking his head, Mickey could guess how many pills the kid has taken. “You think you can just fucking end it  _ all,  _ even us?” 

 

“Urm, I think you've got the wrong person I -” The redhead mumbles, trying to by pass Mickey but ends up being aggressively pushed towards the wall. “Come on, man. This ain't my job, you either fuck or you don't.”

 

Mickey scoffs, clenching his fists. “After fucking  _ everything,  _ you think  _ you  _ can quit out on us? I came out for you, I gave up everything-” He knees the dancer in the groin, sending him to the ground. “For  _ you!”  _ He feels himself shouting but his body isn't making an attempt to stop it, he feels himself wanting to pull back but all he can see is Ian's face. 

 

He punches, this time hard. “How could you fucking do that, Ian? How could just think I would leave you and never come back? Huh?” He sends another fist into the kids face, the redhead falls against the tiles of the bathroom and Mickey sends a swift kick to his side. “I choose what I fucking want, you hear me? And I  _ wanted  _ you!” He kicks again, he can hear the redhead whimpering, he can see the kids hand raise up in some sort of shield, Mickey wants to tell him that it doesn't work, he's fucking tried. 

 

Kicking again, he shouts through the walls of the bathroom, “Then you left me, you fucking left  _ me,  _ what did you want from me? For years-” He kicks the kids ribs again, his hands bruising like he wanted them to. “You grovelled me to love you, to fucking show you how I felt, and then when I do you shove it-” He punches hard against the kids face, wincing at the sight. “Right in the fucking trash. Is that all I am to you? Just a wasted piece of trash?” 

 

His voice lowers, and he feels himself fall back. The redhead is squirming in a pool of his own blood. “Did I even mean anything to you?” Mickey whispers, he can feel the hot, fresh tears fall against his cheeks. “I fucking  _ loved  _ you, Gallagher, and you left. You took my fucking heart and you tore it to pieces.” He wipes his eyes frantically, glancing down to the boy he just beaten up, he wanted to check him, he wanted to call someone for help, but he couldn't. 

 

At this point he didn't have a point to care, if he couldn't breathe, why could everyone else? He leaves through the back door, running down the street as fast as his legs could take him. His whole life he had been running, the second he stopped the world started to crumble around him, maybe that's all he was? Trash, running away from all its problems.

 


	4. Bargaining.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Grief comes in its own time for everyone, in its own way"

Mickey finds himself coked out against the living room couch, he hears the front door open and his mind gives off the sense of hope. “ _Ian..-?”_ He slurs out, his eyes coxing into a sudden blur, he knows it isn't as soon as the figure steps in, the hair isn't bright enough and the smile isn't wide enough.

 

“Nah, man. It's just me.” Iggy steps through, planting a white plastic bag onto the table, his keys rattle as he slumps himself next to Mickey. Mickey eyes the bag narrowly, he can feel Iggy encouraging him to look in it. “You need to calm that shit down man, I bought you a couple of things.”

 

Mickey stays quiet, his head almost lolling to the side. Iggy grabs the bag and pulls it to his lap. Reaching in, he pulls out a crate of beers, two packs of advil and a bar of soap. Iggy nods and stands up, chucking the bag across the room. Mickey grimances at the pile in his lap. “What the fuck do I need soap for?” He moves the clutter next to him, grabbing one beer he pops the cap and gulps half down.

 

“You smell like Frank Gallagher, I can literally smell you from around the block, you need a fucking shower.” Iggy calls from the kitchen, turning the stove on to batch up some eggs.

 

“Why do you even care? You didn't ever give a shit before?” Mickey asks, consciously smelling himself but decides he doesn't have to go anywhere, he doesn't have to impress, he wasn't going out to see anyone, too see Ian, so why bother? “Since when did you ever see Frank, isn't he in the Bahamas’s or some shit?”

 

“Nah, he came back – wallowing about that doctor he left with, thinks life is full of disillusionment and fake advertising. You know he fucked her, _her,_ she's like twenty or some shit. Frank Gallagher gets more ass than me, how can that be fair?” Iggy rants, ploughing his way through the cupboards.

 

“You didn't answer my question.” Mickey points out, slamming his empty beer against the table. Iggy snorts and turns on the spot. “What? Why do I give a shit about you?” He cracks an egg into the pan, shaking his head. “I dunno man, its what brothers do alright. I know Ian would tell you to shower and shit, I heard him boss you about like a million times, even when yous were at it. I guess, 'cause he's not here no more I might aswell fill in for a while, you know – till you sort your shit out.”

 

Mickey's face twists, he didn't need looking after? No. “I don't need to sort my shit out, who the fuck told you that?” Beer two was nearly gone, he was beginning to think he wasn't drinking beer at all, it just tasted like water.

 

“I just fucking know, you've gone all weird since Ian went. All quiet, you barely fucking move unless Mandy kicks your ass too. I mean, you've only spoken to me because I bought you some cheap-ass beer, you wanna tell me why you won't fucking speak no more?” Iggy asks, sitting back down next to his brother, bringing his own beer to his lips.

 

Mickey bites his lip, Iggy knew a lot of things, from all the years Mickey had noticed that his brother was very observant. Maybe _too_ observant. “I – fuck – I should of done something man, I should have fucking stayed and told that asshole that I wasn't leaving.”

 

“That would of stopped him, how?” Iggy tilts his beer, it feels like for once someone was talking to him without pestering him, or telling him things would get better. Then again, Iggy had never been a sentimental dick.

 

“If I stayed, if I just fucking _told_ him that – that, I dunno, that I needed him more than he needed me, he might have never gone into that bathroom and-d taken all of those pills.” He cradles his beer, hands scratching against each knuckle, Iggy remains speechless as Mickey flees it all out. “ _Maybe,_ if I wasn't such a fucking pussy, Ian would still be here. Why couldn't it have been me, you know, he never deserved that shit.”

 

Iggy nods, agreeing in a smooth motion. “Man, you couldn't have done anything. Ian knew you were balls deep in that love crap, I fucking saw it. Its the head, y'know, just like mom, he just couldn't cope with it – maybe, I don't know, maybe he was just giving you a way out.”

 

“I don't need a way out, I _never_ needed a way out. Why couldn't he just fucking see that.” Mickey spits, grabbing for another beer. Iggy puts his hand out, stopping Mickey from grabbing the bottle. “That's enough, lil brother, get in the shower then get some sleep, if Gallagher was here he would kick your ass and you know it.”

 

Mickey pauses, he could just do what Iggy told him to, but he was wrong, well he thought he was. “Well, Ian ain't fucking here, so it doesn't matter anymore.” He swats his brothers hand away and polishes off his bottle, standing up he grabs the two left and walks over to him room. Iggy gives off a sympathetic look, Mickey wants to thank him, atleast he was trying, but he still couldn't breath, he still couldn't feel what he wanted to feel.

 

And that, that was his fault.

 


	5. Depression.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The really crappy thing, the very worst part of grief is that you can’t control it."

“Mickey, let me _in!”_ Mandy bashes her fist against his bedroom door, her foot kicking against the wood but the bolt locking it from the inside, aswell as the chest pulled up against it, stopped her from getting in. It had been three days since they had seen Mickey leave the room.

 

Ignoring his sister, Mickey opens another can of beer, that he had bought a week in advance along with the three other crates, two bottle of Jacks, one large bottle of Vodka and a week supply of coke and weed. Lifting his gun, he shoots at the large pile growing against the end of the bed.

 

“I swear to fuck Mickey, I'll climb through the fucking window.” He hears Mandy, there are a couple more voices which he guessed was Svetlana and Iggy, but really – he couldn't see straight when the drugs mixed with alcohol finally started to kick in.

 

_Bang._ Ian's smile.  _Bang._ Ian's laugh.  _Bang._ Ian's soft hands against his skin.  _BANG...BANG._ Ian's lame jokes.  _**Bang.** _ “Ian.” Mickey whispers to himself, he doesn't bother to move when his door moves an inch, he knows Mandy wasn't strong enough to push through the fort pushed against the door, so he carries on. 

 

Its a dark pit, he feels himself falling into it, the sludge pulling at his body, keeping him stuck, and for the same reason he felt like taking the whole lot of coke, he didn't want to move. Through the darkness he finally let it hold over him, let  _everything_ take over. Its repeated, like a continuous broken record, Ian's words, Ian's presence still seemed real until it wasn't. When it faded he drank again, he let the burn take over, it didn't make him wince that much any-more, after all – it was all he could do. 

 

Drink. 

 

Bang. 

 

Drink. 

 

Snort. 

 

Drink. 

 

It was a rhythm, the only thing protecting him from reality. When Ian's lack of presence became evident to him, he let it take over, it let it consume him and it brought all the side effects with it. Course, Ian had left many time before, but this? - there was no hope that the redhead would storm back through because that door had closed now. 

 

“I ain't fucking moving, Mickey. You can't hide in there forever.” He hears Mandy shout, there's a clash, a small thump, he knows that she's sat behind that door. He knows she won't move because she felt it too, he had never thought what she had been going through, but he still couldn't breathe, he still couldn't move, as much as he wanted to, he would never move on.

 

–

 

Later that night, he hears the crack of the window, the slam of the pane hitting against the ledge. Pulling the covers higher, he buries himself in the pit that felt more like home, he hears a hitch of breath, in his mind he hopes its Ian. That the redhead never really died, that it was some dick joke that Ian had been playing and he would call him out with a  _I fucking got you, you should see you face._ But it wasn't. He felt the small body wrap around his back, the thin hands holding against him, he felt the tickle of long hair against his neck. “I told you I would climb through it.” He hears his sister whisper, her face his wet against his back. Mickey nearly crumbles, his body shakes and the lingering taste of beer sticks to his tongue. 

 

He had hear Mandy sobbing into his back, her throat clogging. It was a matter of time until his tears started to run, soaking the pillow beneath him, he couldn't do this. Could he? He couldn't live like this,  _they_ couldn't live like this. Mickey couldn't breathe no more, and he wasn't sure if he even wanted to. 

 


	6. Acceptance.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The best we can do is try to let ourselves feel it when it comes and let it go when we can."

It's two weeks later, Ian's funeral is up. Mickey hadn't left his room for two weeks, his body was sticking to the sheets, his liver nearly giving up, his heart broken into pieces each time he called Ian's phone and waited for him to pick up. Mandy would always whisper _he's in a better place now, Mick._ At first he wasn't too sure, because he always felt the only place Ian should be in was with him, because Mickey was sure that the only place he could be happy in was with Ian.

 

Shivers shoot up his spine when the alarm clock goes off. The Gallagher's let him stay the night, just to feel close to Ian _finally,_ he almost forgets what Ian sounds like, what he looked like, what he tasted like, until his dreams became more vivid. The sound, like a death sentence, pulls him away from that, it awakens him and he knows he can't do it any-more. He knows he can't stand infront of a load of people and chat bullshit from something he wrote.

 

He can't find his tie, the one that Ian had bought for him that summer, the one he had pulled on each time to drag Mickey into a kiss. Mickey pulls out drawers, flips clothes over, he even goes down the side of the bed, he knows he left it there. Then he finds himself lifting the mattress off the bed, and something falls out, something he hadn't seen since the day he had heard the news.

 

The letter.

 

Hesitantly, he lifts it, letting the light hit the words that read his name. The grief pours back in, the invisible sores reopening. He knew he had to read it, if that day was a day of saying goodbye, he needed to read it. He needed Ian's words, he needed to make sense of everything. Sitting down, he makes sure no one is around, he turns the paper, unravelling it so the words were all clear against the yellowed, crumpled paper.

 

_Mickey,_

 

_By the time you read this I'll be gone. I'm sorry. I'm really fucking sorry. As you can tell I've had a few couple of drinks, maybe two, ah maybe three. Probably more. You always made sure I didn't drink too much, it made me toxic or some shit, but it did make me less weird though? God, what I would do to kiss you like we did at the dugouts, just something to...pain. I've thought about a couple of things, about us. I did a really shitty thing, I fucked you over when things got hard, when I got scared, When you left – I couldn't breathe, you were like some toxic air that caught my lungs and infected me whole. Shit, that came out corny didn't it? You love it really._

 

_I love you Mickey. I really fucking do, and I never got chance to tell you that through me being an asshole. You've worked so hard to make this work, and me? Well, I fucked it up. I really fucked it up. I fucked you up. I ruined you, Mickey. You deserve someone that makes you happy, that gives you the love that you never had from me. I just- I don't want to leave you, but if I run after you, I'm scared you will push me away because I pushed you too far. I always pushed you too far. It's all coming clear now, or maybe its just this Vodka, I- I don't fucking know._

 

_What I said...about you not being able to fix me, well, it ain't true. I lied. I lied about a lot of things. You can fix me, you have fixed me. You were the only person that actually cared, at first I thought you were just hanging by because shit, I was ill and you didn't want to look like a dick for leaving? But then you stuck by, you had so many chances to leave and you took none of them. You ran to me, Mickey Milkovich fucking ran to me, does that even happen? Haha, I do love you._

 

_You have to know that this isn't your fault. You fixed me, with your fucked up life, your trash talking mouth, your constant bitching, your determination to get me better. You said that day that I had you, that there was no need for a suicide list – that's right._

 

_I do have you._

 

_And I've never been more grateful for that._

 

_p.s If you show this to anyone, even Lip, I'll haunt you big time (not that I was planning on it or anything.)_

 

Mickey wants to laugh, he wants cry, maybe punch something. But this was Ian, the _real_ Ian, the scrawny kid that barged into his room demanding for a gun back, This was the fucked up – south-side kid that Mickey fell for. Who he was still falling for, even if he wasn't there. That leap of faith happened for a reason, but _this,_ he needed to see him that one last time, but he couldn't _want_ the closure. There would never be closure when it came to Ian Gallagher, he was too unpredictable for that.

 

Mickey grips the paper in his hand, he braces himself against the dresser, in the glint of his eye he catches Ian's gun stuffed in a black box behind the door. _I do have you._ Mickey looks out the window, quickly, he can see the rest waiting for him, all of them chatting, maybe even laughing about times with Ian, but Mickey couldn't do that. Jokes weren't even real anymore, not when he didn't have Ian there to lamely execute them.

 

He grabs the gun, he holds the letter, he runs to the bathroom and captures the last sense of himself. “You've got me.” He mutters to himself, bringing the gun against his temple. Mickey knows it loaded, he check a couple of nights back when the same thought barged into his mind. But this time was different, he had that acceptance, he had that knowledge that Ian didn't leave the world not loving him.

 

 

Mickey pulls the trigger, a seven second replay of his life flashing before his eyes, and he swears he can hear that redhead whisper, _You've still got me._


End file.
